


An 18th Century Man

by emmbright



Category: Outlander (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 07:31:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4254723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmbright/pseuds/emmbright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place after episode 1x11, The Devil's Mark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An 18th Century Man

“Do you remember when I brought you lunch, at the stables at Leoch? The day after we got there?”  
  
The initial rush of tears and emotions past, they lay together by the campfire – kissing gently, talking of little things that passed through their minds, or simply gazing at one another, almost afraid to blink for fear the other might disappear. Knowing Craigh na Dun was so close, still visible in the moonlight shining down on the mountains and the glen, was unnerving to them both.  
  
“Of course, Sassenach.” Jamie chuckled and pushed a tangle of curls off her temple. “Ye looked so bonny and I was verra happy to see ye, for all that ye damn near killed me, frightening the horse as ye did.”  
  
Claire poked him in the ribs and laughed. “I did not nearly kill you. In any case, it wasn’t really my fault. I blame the ridiculous clothes women wear now. All these skirts and that horrible bum roll. My hips were as wide as a barn. I couldn’t help knocking things over at first, until I got used to them.”  
  
Jamie gave her a crooked smile and ran a hand over her hip, grasping it appreciatively. “Ye’ve a nice womanly shape, Sassenach,” he murmured, slowly beginning to pull up her skirts. “Only half the width of a barn, surely.”  
  
“You’re impossible,” she replied, wrapping her arms around him and gently biting his neck in revenge. “Men here have very different opinions on how a woman ought to look and dress, that’s for certain.”  
  
“Do they not wear such things in your time?” he asked, not stopping his attempts to get his hand beneath her skirts. “No corsets and petticoats and such?”  
  
Claire shook her head and pressed a kiss into the hollow of his throat. A tuft of ginger hair tickled her chin as she contentedly breathed in the scent of wool, wood smoke, and Jamie. The thought of living with the scent and feel of him as only a fading memory was still too terrible to bear, and she pulled him closer to her, squeezing tightly.  
  
“No, at least not ones like these. Women want to look quite slim all over, now. I mean  _then_ ,” she said, correcting herself. It was strange being able to talk freely, no longer worried about slipping up and saying the wrong thing to him. Strange, but wonderfully liberating, that she could at last be completely herself with her husband.   
  
“We wear things that don’t constrict us as much, too,” she went on. “Shorter dresses, lighter fabrics. Not so many layers of underthings.”  
  
“Hmmph,” Jamie said. “Sounds a bit indecent to me.” He sat up suddenly, bringing her with him and holding her at arm’s-length, looking at her with a horrified realization.  
  
“Sassenach…when Murtagh found ye in the woods and thought ye were running around the Highlands in your shift…”  
  
Claire nodded, smiling at the appalled expression on Jamie’s face – an expression she hadn’t seen since the night she’d invited him to sleep on the floor of her room at the inn.  
  
“I was wearing a dress,” she said. “Quite a modest and proper day dress, too, though it was a little the worse for wear after I’d been chased through the mud by bloody Jack Randall. I’d been out at the stones looking for flowers – some forget-me-nots I’d seen the day before. You know, I told you.”  
  
“Modest? Holy God, Claire!” he exclaimed. “It’s as well ye’re staying here wi' me then, if ye come from a time when respectable women traipse about half-naked for all the world to see.”  
  
Jamie’s Scots accent was growing stronger by the second, as it always did when he was stirred up about something. His blue eyes flashed in the firelight, filled as much with lust as with outrage as he looked at her, his hands tight on her upper arms. Claire was struck by such an overpowering wave of affection for him that she wanted to cry nearly as much as she wanted to laugh. She bit her lower lip to keep from doing either.  
  
“Do ye not know how much of ye we could all see that night, lass?” he continued. “Standing before us at the fire as wet as a half-drowned kitten, wi' that thin white dress clinging to yer bosom and yer arse, and…”  
  
Words seemed to leave him as his eyes slowly roamed down her body. He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing visibly in his throat. She had removed the kilt she’d been wearing belted around her for the past few days, and wore only the bodice and shift that had been torn open at the witch trial. The shift hung off her shoulders, its ragged edges fluttering as cool, pine-scented wind whistled through the valley around them. She shivered and Jamie drew her back down onto their makeshift bed with an apologetic sound.  
  
“Come here, mo nighean donn, and let me warm ye.” Jamie pulled the discarded kilt over both of them and she nestled into him, spoon-fashion. His breath was warm as he kissed her neck and shoulders, and she shivered again, but no longer from cold.  
  
“Oh Jamie,” she sighed. “You’re such a…an 18th century man.”  
  
Jamie chuffed a laugh, snaking an arm around to stroke her breast. “Aye, I suppose I would be, whatever ye mean by that. That I’m old-fashioned, I gather. I can hardly help being so to ye though, can I?”  
  
She shook her head as his fingers found the nipple that had sprung up hard against her thin linen shift. “I wouldn’t want you to,” she gasped, pressing her hips back into his in invitation. “I suppose I must like it well enough. I’m here, after all.”  
  
“Oh, aye?” Jamie rolled her onto her back and moved above her, leisurely kissing her forehead, eyes, and cheeks before finally taking her mouth with his. The taste of him too, she thought, adding one more item to the long list of reasons she could no longer live without him, before enveloping him with arms and legs, holding him close.  
  
“Well, that’s as well, my Sassenach,” he said, smiling down at her. “For ye’re mine now, and I dinna mean to let ye go again.”


End file.
